


what if we could

by clairedearing



Series: this has no happy ending [1]
Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Character in Established Relationship, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, unbeated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 13:46:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clairedearing/pseuds/clairedearing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'You're not my type.' </p><p>'Smart?' </p><p>'Single.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	what if we could

**Author's Note:**

> This was not as depressing as I wanted it to be. Listen to [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-7Kn7iYZ_Bc) while reading please and thank you. Unbeated, as usual. Read through once. Errors are probably down there.

It's snowing. The wind picks up the light flurry, skittering swirls of snow across the sidewalk, and James walks through it, regretting his decision to decline a mission to Haiti, in order to properly dress his new apartment. As much as traveling out of country and trying to maintain a flat was nearly impossible, the idea of coming home to a hotel and a PO Box when he was off missions seemed so dreary he might as well pick the lesser of two evils.

There's a weeks worth of pre-ordered meals from a higher scale restaurant in his fridge, but no eggs, or milk, or coffee, all of which are the essentials James' needs to actually function in the morning. 

It's late. The sun's gone down, disappeared over the horizon, and James trudges through the snow, while couples huddle close together to keep warm as they pass him on the street. He barely hides the fond smile he almost nearly directs to them. He chooses a corner store that's hidden out of the way, only frequented by the people who have enough money to spend on gourmet coffee and organic fresh salmon. It's late enough that the only people that remain are younger kids living on their own, coats bundled around them, chewing their lips on whether or not to break their bank for better food, and couples, picking out chocolates and discussing ingredients to the meals they'll have together, cherishing the few moments they can get after a long day at work. 

The door chimes when James walks through the door, ignoring the cashier's 'hey there', and grabs a basket off of the rack, briskly walking to the refrigerated section. There's a collection of eggs, organic, natural, cage-free, organic and natural, cage-free and organic, and so on, but James only takes a second to grab the one he's always gotten (which is all three of the choices above) and stick it in his basket, before moving over two spots to get his usual milk. 

It's when he goes to get his coffee that things start to go down hill. 

Bond hears Q before he sees him. It's hard not to recognize the light, dry voice that's been by his spiritual side for weeks now. It's also hard not to recognize the voice that makes his chest feel just a little bit tighter and his smirk turn into a barely-smile. But, that's always been during work, never during 'not-work'. 

He thinks about running away. He's not ashamed to admit it. He could wait until Q passes, and James could dart past to get to the cashier. He can hide out at the restaurant across the street until he sees Q leave, and then get his coffee. It's a solid plan, and Q'll never be the wiser for it.

But, the reason why this plan could go effortlessly is because Q's attention is not on his groceries, or on a loose though.

They're on a man, dark hair cropped close to his head, smile wide as he holds up a pack of strawberries for Q to inspect. He's darker than James' own skin tone, though not overtly so, a day's worth of stubble covering his jaw, and bright white teeth that are shining at Q.

(It could be a relative, James tells himself, hiding away in the section between the soup and tea. It could be, but he knows it's not.)

The man bends down, and kisses Q's lips softly, and Q presses against him, grabbing the man's shirt lightly to pull him forward, before the man pulls back and puts the pack of strawberries in the basket Q is carrying. 

Flee, Bond decides, and the minute that Q turns away James stalks across, deliberately not looking towards him. Nevertheless, he somehow notices that Q's wearing an older sweater, the hem frayed and unraveling, and he's wearing the heavy overcoat that he wore during their first meeting, too big and ill fitting.

"Bond," Q says, and James stop, even though he knows he could keep walking and Q would shrug it off as the wrong person, or that he didn't heat. 

But, James stops, and turns, and smiles the smile that's reserved for work, and from the twitch of Q's lips, he knows it as well.

"Q," Bond says, smoothly, and his eyes do not flicker down to Q's hand, as the man next to him gently grabs it. "I didn't know you were allowed out this late."

Q scowls. "And I didn't realize you could stay awake this late."

Bond smirks, though it's far more fond than it should be. "It's amazing what you can learn once you've looked up from your computer screen." 

It's familiar banter between them, and Q's wary expression disappears into a slight upturning of his lips. 

Leave, Bond thinks, the twinge in his chest already becoming nearly visible. Leave while you still can. 

"I'm Isaac," the man says, and James stares at Q for just a second more for turning to the man besides Q, one hand still curled around Q's, and the other held up for Bond to shake. "I'm guessing you two know each other?"

James shakes his hand, squeezing just barely, and makes a sound of agreement in the back of his throat. 

"Colleagues," Q says, when James drops Isaac's hand, and Bond's own swings to his side like it's made of lead. "I work with Bond."

"Bond?" Isaac questions, smile still planted firmly on his face.

"James Bond," James says, and scans Isaac's face for any sign of recognition. There's none, which is somehow a disappointment. Like he wants this man to know that he's killed before, and that he could do it again without any care. He wants him to know that he's dangerous, and he should be afraid.

Isaac grins, and looks towards Q. "Is this one of those things where I can't say your name out loud?"

"It is," Q says, quickly, and Bond snags his tongue between his teeth, closed mouth, before releasing it. (He can't stop looking at their joined hands, casual and safe, even though each time he does it, it gets a little bit harder to breathe.) "I thought you were in Haiti."

"I said no," James says. "Figure I spend the time decorating my apartment."

"You travel?" Isaac questions, and James looks at him, at the way his hand still is threaded around Q's, and he feels irrationally angry. "I thought you worked in computers," he says, towards Q. Q blinks.

"I do. Bond is in a separate division," he explains it, almost like he's talking to a student. "He travels, I stay at home."

James can't help the breathless laugh that escapes him. "Not for lack of trying. Still afraid of flying?"

He scowls. "I'm not afraid of flying. I just don't like it."

Isaac laughs, and shakes his head. "It's two against one on that, I'm afraid. I still regret ever trying to get you on a plane that one Christmas."

"You know I hate surprises," Q shoots back, smiling, and Bond feels something cold coil in his stomach, and he coughs, and Q and Isaac swing back towards him.

"If you'll excuse me," James says, and it sounds more tense than he wants, and he steps back. "I'm afraid I have to go. Long day."

"Don't I know it," Q sighs, and smiles. "Good night, James."

Isaac matches his smile. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Bond. It's been a pleasure."

"Yes," James says, and manages to contiune on his way, grabbing a tin of coffee off of the shelf and stalking towards the cashier. He pays for it with too much cash, and forgets his change, breaking through the door of the mart to the frigid, cold outside. It itches at his bare cheeks, the wind kicking snow into his face and biting at him. He closes his eyes, and stands, snow clinging to his jacket and hair, and exhales.

Single was never his type in the first place. He supposes he should have expected as much.


End file.
